


Dance Me To The End

by rayvanfox



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, Gaby is the boss, Multi, Other, between gaby and illya, female-centric smut, inception of the OT3, solo wants in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-25 14:20:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4964005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayvanfox/pseuds/rayvanfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Step one: assess the situation.</p><p>Step two: locate the problem.</p><p>Step three: disassemble the problem into its component parts.</p><p>Step four: rebuild as needed, for your own purposes.</p><p>Step five: dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gaby

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Mel and Erin for dragging me into this fandom and then egging me on,  
> and to Jade for always being willing to lend a helping hand, eye, or headcanon.

_Steady._

One foot in front of the other. No matter how high the heel, that’s the principle of the thing. Even the most complicated dance is made up of nothing but steps. Steps one can learn in order to move to the rhythm of the song that’s playing. It’s not hard if you break it down — break everything down — into steps.

Step one: assess the situation.

Step two: locate the problem.

Step three: disassemble the problem into its component parts.

Step four: rebuild as needed, for your own purposes.

Step five: dance.

-

Step one

“You didn’t notice either of us until Illya started to take interest in me.”

“Correction: neither of you were worth my time until he started to show a little personality, and you showed how easily you could wrap him around your little finger. How’d you do it, by the way?”

“Brute force.”

“Charming.”

“It was to him.”

Solo raised a cheeky eyebrow at her in response. She didn’t budge, face neutral as stone. He’d get it eventually — that slickness and flash weren’t palatable, especially not to her Illya.

For he _was_ hers, on some level. Not every level, not even the ones they played the roles of, with rings and public touches and private reserve. He was nowhere near besotted — he wasn’t even that loyal to Mother Russia — enough to give her all of him. But he deferred to Gaby in ways that continued to surprise and secretly delight her, just as they annoyed Solo.

It was good for him, she decided, to not be the center of attention.

Solo shifted in his seat as if inviting her to sit on his lap. She looked at him with a ‘never going to happen’ lip curl, and he grinned placidly back at her. Unbidden, her eye strayed to his open lap, and through the thin wool of his trousers she caught the outline of his interest. _Talk about a brute._ He seemed utterly unconcerned with the fact that he was aroused — both vulnerable and threatening — in her presence. In fact he was looking past her, as if she were unimportant...

_Oh._ She didn’t even have to turn and look to know Illya was behind her in the doorway. Living with spies was such a nightmare; you never knew when they would steal up on you — or for that matter, steal something from you.

Gaby stepped to the side, feeling as though something was already lost, letting her Illya take the place she'd occupied for Solo to admire.

Which was exactly what he was doing, openly, and with obvious interest. Illya either didn’t notice or was supremely unconcerned. _Or,_ a tiny voice whispered in her head, _simply playing the part of a loyal fiancé._

Solo folded his hands over his lap, doing more to draw attention than conceal, and Illya blinked, then looked straight ahead at the blank wall. He shifted on the balls of his feet, and Gaby watched him, entranced. That twitch of his jaw, the drawing back of his shoulders, he was preparing for something — a confrontation? Or maybe some other type of encounter.

Gaby felt as if the ground had shifted under her feet. She had been the hinge up until now — the only thing holding the polar opposite spies in their orbit, both binding them together and keeping them separate. Now there was a stirring of fear in her chest that her function on the team - if that's what you could call it - would become obsolete.

But then Illya grimaced. He glanced at her and his nose wrinkled, and it felt like a show of allegiance. Solo saw it and smirked — not at her, but it might as well have been.

“Shall we?” Solo said mildly, as if nothing had happened.

“Let’s,” she replied, linking her arm with Illya’s. He changed his stance to accommodate her height as Solo stood and gazed at them with a level of fondness that could only be fake. To pull him off balance and draw him off his high horse, Gaby held out her free hand to him. After only a momentary pause, he offered her his elbow, and the three of them headed out for dinner.

-

Step Two

“I don’t like it,” Illya said gruffly. Granted, he said most things in that tone of voice, but somewhere Gaby could hear grumpiness, and it made her lips twitch in amusement.

“You don’t like anything. Get over it.”

“He treats you like an object. A tool.” Illya was focused on the orange he was peeling for her. She hadn’t asked, and he hadn’t offered, but she was certain he’d hand her at least half of it before he ate even one segment.

“He treats you the same. _And_ he looks at you as though he could get a few more uses out of you.”

Illya grunted. “I’m not ready for the junk pile yet.”

“That’s not what I meant, darling.” She put her hand on his forearm and he stopped peeling for three heartbeats.

“I am not Swiss army knife, either. I have few functions, but they work well.”

“That,” She said as she took the half-peeled orange from him, “I’m very aware of.” As he watched, she bit into the peeled side like an apple, then tossed the fruit onto the table and got up to walk away.

He stood abruptly, making the table wobble. “Where are you going?”

Still chewing her mouthful, she said flatly, with no hint of invitation, “To bed.”

Illya swallowed as if it were difficult, his eyes soft, boyish, hurt. She was shocked he would even think the words, but grateful he refrained from speaking them. They echoed in her head nonetheless: 'with _him?'_

“Alone.”

A pause. A draw of breath. A tiny, formal nod.

She almost faltered as she walked away, but managed to keep one foot in front of the other all the way up the stairs. His gaze seared like Mediterranean sunshine on her back. It made her shiver.

-

Step Three

“He doesn’t want you,” she said conversationally over sandwiches and coffee at an outdoor cafe.

Solo didn’t even glance up from gently stirring sugar into his cappuccino so as not to disturb the foam. “I don’t remember saying he did.”

“ _I_ don’t want you.”

“Now don’t let’s be rude about it. You make me sound like the serpent in paradise, and we both know _that’s_ not accurate.”

“True. You’re not that big or that important. A poisonous frog?”

He smiled, but it looked enough like a wince that she had to hide her smirk of triumph. When he flicked his eyes up to meet hers, it felt like a challenge — a slap or a kiss. “Must you be so hard?”

“I'm sorry, which one of us is hard?” She swerved at the very last moment to avoid the double entendre, but he heard it anyway. They both ignored it.

“I’m not a threat, for God’s sake.” He took a prim sip of his coffee before continuing. “Think of me as a support — a flying buttress, if you will. It’s much easier to hold up a stone ceiling from the inside, rather than the outside.”

She put on her affronted face. “So I’m stone, am I?”

“I merely ask to be let in. For the sake of the team.”

An amused snort forced its way out of her. “Starting to feel the cold are you?”

“Illya’s hot-blooded enough to keep both of us warm,” Solo said without any hint of suggestion in his voice.

He really wanted this — whatever this was. He wanted _something,_ certainly. “What do you get out of it?”

“The attention I so clearly deserve.” The response was too flippant — too slick and obvious. It had to be at least partially true.

“That’s what your endless string of lady friends is for.”

He shrugged, a half-formed gesture. “A challenge.”

She blinked until she realized he was answering her question a different way. “I flung down the gauntlet ages ago. Let me know when you’ve managed to pick it up.”

He looked at her, unblinking, for long enough that she sought refuge in her sandwich, but the bite stuck in her throat. Finally, he wiped his mouth with his napkin and tossed it onto the table, his eyebrows raised for the waiter to bring the check.

-

Step Four

He started with flowers, which she turned up her nose at. Illya threw them out the next morning. Then he moved on to chocolates, as if they were any better. Then clothing and jewelry, until Illya growled and threatened to turn him in — they all knew he hadn’t paid for them. Then it was sweet love notes and drives through the country. She insisted Illya read the former and join in on the latter, amused at how the two men were equally grumpy over both.

Then Solo changed tactics, and started to woo Illya. She didn’t feel replaced in his affection, if that was what it could be called, but recognized it as a more oblique angle from which to win her over. Or maybe them both at once. Illya thought he saw through the new strategy as well, which amused her to no end, because every sweet gesture Solo made towards him served only to make Illya jealous of his intentions with Gaby.

Gifts were found in the garbage the next day. Alone time was sabotaged, romantic gestures were scoffed at. Solo tried serenades, homemade dinners, nights on the town, breakfast in bed (for both of them together, as if he’d simply been waiting for the first time they’d spent the whole night in Gaby’s bed). Nothing worked to soften up Gaby, and everything made Illya bristle even more than usual. She started thinking of her Illya as a very tall hedgehog, and Solo as Pepe LePew — his advances were just as unwanted, and Illya’s nose wrinkled every time he tried something new.

Finally, one chilly afternoon, when Illya and Gaby were sprawled out on the sofa — each from a different end with their legs a tangle where they met — snacking on pastries and coffee, Solo slunk in and stretched out on the carpet in front of them. He fit himself between the coffee table and the sofa, laced his fingers across his stomach, and pinned his eyes to the ceiling.

“I give up.”

Gaby sighed. _Danken Sie Gott._ Illya was dead-still, watching and waiting, but there was something about his bearing that seemed to have lost its ever-present tension.

“It’s fine that you don’t want me, it really is. But can you please not be so smug about it?”

“Smug?” Illya frowned, confusion over Solo’s choice of words, not their meaning, written across his brow.  

“I’ve never seen a couple whose ‘love’ was so impenetrable.” Solo’s inflection on the word _love_ was utterly mocking. Neither Gaby nor Illya took offence. “It would be impressive if it weren’t so off-putting.”

“Off-putting?” she asked. If that were true, he would have given up a long time ago.

“Irritating. Disgusting.” Solo refused to even glance at either of them. “Enviable.”

“You don’t want this. You want to break it up. You want to use one of us to make the other miserable.”

Gaby stared at Illya, unsure which was more shocking — his assessment of Solo or the assumptions he'd made about their own relationship.

Illya’s jaw twitched, and he blinked twice. “It won’t work. You cannot break what hasn’t formed.”

That was even worse. Gaby pressed her bare foot against Illya’s calf, her heart banging against her sternum, and prayed he was a much better liar than she’d given him credit for. She didn’t know what they had, but it surely wasn’t nothing. _Was it?_

Solo turned his head and propped up on both elbows. “You’ve got it all wrong, Peril. I simply want a very thin slice of the pie.” He slid into his smarmy showman’s voice without a blink, possibly without knowing he’d done so. “There’s a theory out there that when a group of people all eat the same meal, they connect better — they think more alike and share a closer bond with each other.” He smiled as if that explained everything.

“You want a taste of my fake girlfriend so we will work better together. You are sick, cowboy.”

Solo opened his mouth to speak, but Gaby shut him up with, “You want to belong to us. Like we do to each other.”

Both men stared at her as if she’d spoken in Martian. Solo recovered first. Or at least he was first to look like he had. “I’m not some stray dog to be adopted, for God’s sake.”

But that was exactly what he was. She could see it behind his eyes. _Finally._ She nodded slowly at him, so he couldn’t miss her meaning. “You’ve picked up the gauntlet then, have you?”

Solo frowned. Illya scoffed. “He just said he gave up. Let it be, yes?”

“No.” Gaby said quietly, firmly. She sat forward and picked up the last _pain au chocolat_ from the plate on Illya’s lap, then reached out to lay it directly on top of Solo’s vest, just missing his silk tie. “Go get a cup and I’ll pour you some coffee.”

Ten seconds of sweet silence passed before Solo blinked and picked up the pastry. A moment later, he stood and headed for the kitchen.

Illya sighed and leaned his head back against the sofa cushion. “This is bad. This lying. The way he pries.”

“He’s fine. We can handle him,” she said as she set the plate of pastries aside so she could crawl up her Illya’s outstretched frame. When she reached his face, she added, “And I don’t lie to you. Not about this...” She kissed him slowly, not like before, when they’d crashed into each other out of frustration and a need to blur the lines between reality and the fiction they upheld for appearances.

He froze, then tentatively responded, his hands too gentle on the small of her back. She pressed heavily against him, willing his interest to show itself, hard against her leg. Just when they were getting somewhere, Solo returned, as if it were his calling to interrupt at just the wrong moment, and she huffed at him, blowing her bangs out of her eyes.

“Pour your own coffee, spy,” she groused, and let her weight on Illya relax as if she were planning on taking a nap right there, on top of him. Illya’s hands gripped her blouse for a moment, as if he didn’t want her to leave, then they eased off and dropped to his sides. With that little nervous tell, Gaby dismissed utterly the idea of moving. It would allow Solo to see how excited she’d made Illya, and she’d never be forgiven.

As she watched Solo pour his coffee, contentedly chewing a bite of his pastry, Gaby marveled at how far they still had to go.

_ One foot in front of the other... _


	2. Illya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Learning to dance is just a matter of paying attention. Focusing on each detail of movement, in order, going however slowly you need to, until you know all the right ways to move. Only then can you speed it up to real time and make it look natural. As if you’ve known your whole life how to move to this rhythm. As if this music is in your veins, like your ancestors’ blood.

Learning to dance is just a matter of paying attention. Focusing on each detail of movement, in order, going however slowly you need to, until you know all the right ways to move. _Only then_ can you speed it up to real time and make it look natural. As if you’ve known your whole life how to move to this rhythm. As if this music is in your veins, like your ancestors’ blood.

Illya was supremely aware of the fact that not only had he never learned to dance, but the Chop Shop Girl danced to her own special rhythm. It wasn’t just in the way she moved, but the choices she made — like plays on a chessboard. For she was playing chess, whether she thought about it that way or not. Illya just couldn’t get a handle on her strategy.

The music between them had slowed, the bass turned up. It thumped stronger in their chests, and yet he still couldn’t keep up. This was a song he hadn’t expected to hear. He’d simply been playing the role he’d been given — playing it well, he believed. And then his tiny, furious, Chop Shop Girl had attempted what amounted to a queen’s sacrifice, knocking him off balance, and he’d fallen. For her. Beneath her. Same thing. And now they were _something_ to each other, he just couldn’t pinpoint what. Or when exactly things had shifted.

The idea that it had happened when the Cowboy lost his _hauteur_ pained Illya for some reason. What did the American have to do with things between himself and his Girl? In the back of his mind Illya knew the answer wasn’t so simple as black and white. There was another player on the board, and every move each of them made affected all the other pieces.

And recently, relations between the three of them had eased, because the Cowboy had stopped... whatever it was he’d been doing. At first it had seemed like he was trying to get between Illya and his Girl, but that wasn’t quite it. It took Illya a while to understand that not only was the Chop Shop Girl not playing that way, but neither was the Cowboy. By the time it hit him that this wasn’t an either/or situation but something much more involved, Illya was tempted to step away from the whole thing — decline to dance, resign the game and leave the board to the victor.

But by then Illya was smitten.

And so, things began getting complicated. And triangulated. All because of the Cowboy, who had finally stopped acting like an intrusive thief, peering at the window, trying to find a way in. Of course the only reason he wasn’t looking anymore was because the Girl had given him an entrance, which he took. _‘Keep your friends close, your enemies...’_

Illya knew the Cowboy wasn’t now an enemy, but he was as foreign as a person could get. None of his moves made any sense at all, and they served only to embarrass Illya on his account. Now Illya just watched him, wondering what the endgame was, certain the Girl could see it and was laughing at them both.

“All he wants is to be petted, Illya,” his Girl said one afternoon after a recon mission, when they had taken up residence on the sofa. “He’s like a dog at the hearth, not a fox in the henhouse.” Her eyes glittered and Illya scowled at her amusement, knowing it was at his expense.

“It is not him, but his ego he wants petted. I don’t do that.”

“No. You don’t. But it doesn’t hurt to give him some encouragement.”

“What am I to encourage? I don’t want him in...” He left off before saying ‘our bed’, because they only shared one infrequently, no matter how good their _thing_ was becoming. Illya, somewhat clumsily, took her hand, saying, “ _This_ is not for him.”

“I agree he has to earn it, yes. But he will. His little ego won’t let him fail.”

Illya thought for a bit, staring out the window at the rain. His Girl got bored with him and took refuge in the newspaper. Finally he said, “Foxes are not good pets. If he is fox, he is out.”

She shook her head as if disappointed, folding the paper into quarters. “I told you, he’s not a fox.”

“And you are not henhouse,” Illya said, the moment he realized it was true. “You are the hearth.”

The Girl nodded, a small smile playing at her lips. “Now you’re getting it.”

Illya felt his eyes light up at the praise. Watching Illya’s face, the Girl let her smile grow wide just for him. He wanted to bask in their private pleasure, but a question nagged at him: “Will _he?_ ”

“That remains to be seen. But I’ll admit, I’m rooting for him.”

For a moment, the rush of fondness in his chest stole Illya’s breath, and he couldn’t quite pinpoint its target. Maybe this team was a good idea after all. At the very least this winter would prove to be interesting. He shifted his weight around on the sofa and managed to just fit so his head was on his Girl’s lap, his legs draping awkwardly over the armrest. “I think...” he surprised himself by saying, “I am too.”

 

-

 

Mornings were Illya’s time. He woke with the sun and did calisthenics until he’d warmed his muscles, then he caught up on the news and his reports while basking in the quiet of a house that wasn’t yet awake. Cowboy was usually up next, unless he’d had a visitor to his bed, and it had taken him a long time to realize that mornings were not for talking. The idle chatter had slowly diminished until now they could share the silence in companionable peace. Illya was surprisingly grateful for the small favor.

When Cowboy made enough coffee for both of them, Illya grunted his approval and thanks, and he was sure he saw a hint of satisfaction, possibly pride, in Cowboy’s corresponding smile.

“She liked your eggs yesterday,” Illya proffered. If Cowboy could do something nice for him, he could at least let the man talk a little. “Maybe make them again today?”

“I’d rather make something _you_ liked, just to even out the enjoyment,” Cowboy replied easily, as if he’d been planning all along to have this conversation.

“I liked the eggs,” Illya mused, but a moment later added, “I liked the French toast more.”

“The stuffed French toast with strawberries?”

Illya nodded, looking out the window at the clear sky. He wasn’t one to let his desires be known without a twinge of embarrassment. Especially when they were so decadent.

“It’s surprisingly easy, if you’d like to learn...” Cowboy used that voice which insinuated so many other things — promises he couldn’t ever intend to keep. That was in the voice too — the fleeting nature of the offer, and the apology as it slipped away.

“Yes,” Illya said, wondering at himself. The Girl’s voice in his head hummed approvingly, and almost made him blush.

Just a few minutes later, he was in the kitchen, sporting a too-short apron and following directions for hulling strawberries and mixing cream cheese filling, while Cowboy dipped bread in egg and fried it.

“You’re remarkably pliant these days. Has she really managed to tame you, Peril?” They never used the Girl’s name between them, knowing there was only one 'she' they would ever mention.

“Not _me,_ ” Illya countered. “Tell me: when was last time you brought someone home?”

“Irrelevant. We’ve been without a mission for a week," Cowboy explained, as if he only took lovers for work. Illya snorted in response. Cowboy continued, unfazed. "I’m starting to think Waverly’s forgotten about us.”

“Never. Patience, Cowboy. I hear stirrings about Honduras.”

“And there’s always the unrest in Vietnam.”

Illya frowned as he whisked the cream cheese frothy. He did not want to take his Chop Shop Girl to Vietnam. After a minute, Cowboy rested his hand on Illya’s forearm, slowing, then stopping the motion. “That looks perfect, Peril. Any more and it’ll start to curdle.”

Sheepishly, Illya set the bowl aside, saying, “She likes sweet things. But not too sweet. Croissants, not danishes.”

“Are you worried this will be too much for her?” Cowboy sounded as though he was going to make fun of Illya for indulging the Girl, but instead he said, “I could fry up some sausages or ham to even out the sweet and savory.”

“Yes, that’s good.”

Cowboy raised his eyebrows and smiled as he headed to the icebox for breakfast meat. “She really does have you wrapped around her little finger.”

“It is not so bad a place to be,” Illya replied, rather more proud than defensive. “But you will never try.”

“Won’t I? Are you keeping all her fingers for yourself?”

Illya couldn’t hide his little private smile. “You must be housebroken first.”

“Well, I suppose if I must...” Cowboy said, thoughtfully. “How do you propose to do that, exactly?”

The idea that this part might be Illya’s job had never once crossed his mind, but when Cowboy said it, it made perfect sense. “Wrap you around my fist.”

When Cowboy’s eyes lit up in anticipation instead of fear, Illya could have kissed him. Three times, on the cheeks. It had obviously been a long time since he’d fought someone.

 

-

 

The three of them found a rhythm together, choppy sometimes, but serviceable. Cowboy cooked, Illya cleaned, and their Girl made repairs — especially on the getaway cars. Cowboy and Illya wrestled for fun in the living room, he and his Girl wrestled for pleasure in the bedroom, and she and Cowboy verbally sparred for dominance everywhere else. Cowboy always lost.

But then one night the Cowboy tried to take the Chop Shop Girl to bed. Or take himself to _her_ bed. Illya had been wounded in a fight with an arms smuggler and was stretched out on the sofa where the Girl had been tending to his injuries. No sooner had he declared his intention to not move from the spot to sleep, than the Cowboy swooped in.

“That sounds awfully lonely,” he purred to the Girl. “Can’t I be of service somehow?”

She looked askance at him, then glanced thoughtfully down at Illya. “I’m not sure you can.”

“Surely there must be _something_ I can do, he—”

“Actually, fetch him a glass of water. He’s lost enough blood he’s probably thirsty.”

“I'm fine. I am _right_ here. Do not talk about me as if I weren’t,” Illya protested. The Girl ignored him and waved her hand to dismiss the Cowboy to the kitchen. He reluctantly removed himself.

The moment he was gone, Illya hissed at his Girl, “I don’t like this. He’s trying to—”

“Shhh, darling. It’s all right. He’s a little puppy. I’ll have him eating out of—”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. Don’t let him—”

“Remember, _Liebchen._ This” — she pressed her hand to Illya’s chest, just to the left of his shoulder wound — “he only gets if he earns it.”

Illya’s heart sped up under her palm, and his wounds started to throb. He repressed the impulse to bring her hand to his mouth and kiss it. “I don’t trust him with you.”

“He’s trying to be—”

“He is fox—” Illya cut off when he saw the Cowboy enter the room, a tall glass of water and a bottle of extra strength painkillers in his hands.

The Girl took both and administered the drug to Illya, coaxing him to drink the whole glass as he swallowed the pills. She was a good nursemaid, and Illya tried not to resent her attentions.

“Anything else I can do for you, Miss Teller?” Her name in the Cowboy's mouth made Illya’s chest burn.

The Girl was looking at Illya with a fond expression. A calming one. “How much can you deadlift, Solo?”

Stepping up behind the Girl and bending down, he said into her ear, “At _least_ a good... ninety-eight pounds?” He thought he was so funny, this Cowboy.

The Girl turned to look at the Cowboy, and their faces were inches apart. That image, along with the implication that the Cowboy could pick up his Girl and carry her away had Illya clenching his teeth, then his fists. Her response was muffled by the force of his pulse in his ears. Every nerve ending in him was standing at attention and his vision started to shake.

When adrenaline hit his system this hard, anger took over, and he wanted — no, _needed_ — to fight for his rightful place, even if his grasp on it was tenuous. He didn’t know much about what his Girl wanted, but everything he knew about the Cowboy wasn’t it. No matter how much he’d changed recently, how considerate and sincere he’d become, how he paid attention to his teammates’ needs in such a natural way that one almost believed he had no ulterior motives...

_No. He would pay._

Illya would hurt the Cowboy — teach him a lesson. Except getting up was actually impossible when he tried. The pain in his shoulder and leg and — God dammit, everywhere else — had him gasping, falling back onto the sofa cushions. His Girl absently pressed a cool hand to his forehead, then his chest, and the rage began to subside.

No revenge tonight. No inadvertent casualties either. He wouldn’t have forgiven himself if his Girl had been caught in the crossfire.

When his vision cleared and his breath came back, the volume in the room turned back up, and he heard his Girl, still in quiet discussion with the Cowboy. “Do you think it would fit through the bedroom door?”

“Sounds remarkably inefficient. If he would just let me...”

“You’ll have to take that up with him yourself.” She gave the Cowboy a significant look, and Illya winced at the knee-jerk instinct to punch the bastard in his smug, too-pretty face.

The Cowboy kneeled down next to the sofa and looked at Illya conspiratorially, as if they would ever hold a secret between them. Illya could have torn his throat out, if it hadn’t been so painful to move. “All right Peril, look. We can do this the easy way or the hard way, your choice. Will you let me carry you to bed so we can look after you in comfort? Or am I going to have to wrestle a mattress out here for Gaby and I to sleep on in shifts while we keep your invalided, couch-bound self company?”

 _This was what they’d been discussing?_ They weren't going to leave him and go off to be alone together? “I don’t... You cannot carry me.”

“Care to bet on that, my friend?”

This was the Cowboy’s chance. _Why wasn’t he taking it?_ Illya managed to suppress his wonder to say, “I don’t bet.”

“Fine. Darling...” The Cowboy turned to the Girl and Illya wanted to take a swing at him, on principle. “Pacify our unruly Russian so I can manhandle him without protest.”

“You are _not_ man—”

“ _Liebchen,_ shut up,” his Girl said as she straddled his waist and leaned down until their noses touched. Her voice was gravelly and low, pitched just for Illya. “Kiss me. And relax so our puppy can help get you to bed.”

“Are you sure not fox?”

“Puppy.”

“I think maybe _I’m_ the henhouse.”

“You’re a furnace. We all know this. Now behave. And kiss me.”

Illya did as he was told. She took it slow, letting his breath ease and his heart rate get heavy instead of speeding up. An LP of a kiss, not a forty-five. She murmured endearments in German, pressing them to his mouth, his jaw, his temple, running her fingers through his hair and down his neck, making him sigh her name and hold her around the waist with his less painfully injured arm.

After bringing him fully back to himself  — and his senses — with her touch, she whispered, “Enough for now. More later if you cooperate.”

“Is that a promise?” he heard a voice that wasn’t his own saying. Cowboy was still there, damn him to hell. But Illya had promised to behave, and if it meant having his Girl curl up against his nearly good side to fall asleep tonight, it would be worth it.

“If _you_ behave you can have the foot of the bed, _Hündchen_.”

“How sweet of you,” Cowboy snarked, rolling his eyes with a smile. “Now for _you,_ Peril. Try not to make this difficult.” It was disconcerting how easy the lift seemed to be for the Cowboy, but then again, Illya was helping as much as his injured arms would allow. As he staggered only slightly under Illya’s weight, Cowboy said, “I’ve never carried a bride over the threshold, so let me know how I do.”

Before Illya could open his mouth to protest, his beautiful, infuriating Chop Shop Girl said, “Just get him in bed in one piece, _then_ we can talk about a wedding.”


	3. Napoleon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This had become an overly-complicated dance, which wasn’t how things were supposed to work. Dancing was for those who couldn’t move quickly enough to avoid such things. Standing still was the trick. Finding a nice location, taking up space in an aesthetically pleasing fashion, and then the tricky part: not moving until absolutely necessary. Or at least making it look like you hadn’t moved from that spot until you were meant to. But that last bit was the advanced level.

This had become an overly-complicated dance, which wasn’t how things were supposed to work. Dancing was for those who couldn’t move quickly enough to avoid such things. Standing still was the trick. Finding a nice location, taking up space in an aesthetically pleasing fashion, and then the tricky part: not moving until absolutely necessary. Or at least making it look like you hadn’t moved from that spot until you were meant to. But that last bit was the advanced level.

The morning Napoleon woke up in Miss Teller and the Red Peril’s bed, standing still was no longer an option. It would take some fancy footwork to get out of there alive.

He'd been blindsided by how easy it was to be let in, when it came down to it — and how nerve-wracking. It was simply a matter of showing them he actually cared. But Miss Teller was as good as a lie detector test and Peril resented anything short of a punch in the gut, and, well, Napoleon so rarely cared that it took some getting used to.

After the rejection of all his advances and then a period of waiting to see whether either of his teammates would make a move, Napoleon barely knew what to do when the moment came. Because apparently, when Peril was injured, he actually allowed people to get close to him. That, or Miss Teller had much more sway than Napoleon had assessed initially. Peril was clearly a goner. Poor guy didn't even know how deeply he was in it.

_What would that be like,_ Napoleon wondered.

_Right._ It would be like waking up in bed with your two international spy ring teammates, wholly unprepared for what came after such an intimate evening as the one they'd just shared.

An _adorable_ evening, to be utterly frank. Peril had been loopy, either from the pain or the painkillers, and Miss 'what’s wrong with my Christian name?' Teller had coddled the invalid as much as he'd allow, then moved on to making fun of him, to both his and Napoleon's amusement.

They'd all bundled into her bed — she'd insisted on it, as if it were necessary in times of injury to keep track of all of her cubs — and she welcomed Napoleon with a sharp smile and an incongruous, mildly insulting endearment that translated, as far as he could tell, to 'doggie'.

If she was the mama bear and he was the hound, what, pray tell, was Peril?

Besides, of course, the cuddliest Russian assassin known to man? Because that was the sum total of what Napoleon learned as to how Peril — as well as Miss Teller — behaved in bed. Never mind the fact that engaging in nothing more than spooning with the tiniest car mechanic and the tallest threat to the American way of life constituted the most intimate evening Napoleon had experienced in years.

Never mind _that._ It wouldn’t do.

So when it came to be the morning after, Napoleon was left with stealing away before anyone woke up and could start asking questions — or worse yet, making assumptions. The problem was, you had to get up very early in the morning to pull one over on Peril. Earlier than Napoleon would ever be able to manage, it seemed.

The moment Napoleon lifted a corner of the blanket to slip out from under it, Peril’s eyes opened. He grunted, either in surprise or pain — or both — and frowned up at Napoleon. Being a master thief, Napoleon was almost never caught in the act, and he felt his face flush as a shot of adrenaline went through him. Problematically, neither fight nor flight was an option at the moment. Unless Peril swung first.

Instead Peril seemed to attempt stretching whichever muscles weren’t too injured, saying, “I would kill for coffee. And painkillers.”

Napoleon’s mouth nearly dropped open. He managed to take it in stride, though. “And something to eat. Those pills shouldn’t be taken on an empty stomach.”

“Breakfast in bed, Solo?” Miss Teller asked in a voice muffled by the pillow against Peril’s less injured shoulder. “You _are_ good to us. Isn’t he, Illyusha?”

Peril hummed in agreement. “Not fox at all.”

Miss Teller — Gaby, for God’s sake, they’d shared a bed — propped up on an elbow and gently brushed the hair off of Peril’s — Illya’s — forehead. As she kissed his temple, her eyes locked on Napoleon’s assessingly, almost challengingly. He had no idea if he’d passed muster when she said, “Just toast and coffee for me.”

For once, Napoleon was happy to be dismissed.

Coming back to bed with coffee, toast, and hard boiled eggs — an easy source of protein that Peril could eat one-handed — felt supremely awkward. What right did he have to insert himself into this established relationship, after all? Napoleon almost lost his nerve and was tempted to simply set down the tray, pick up his coffee cup, and leave.

In fact, he was in the act of doing so when Illya reached out and touched his bare forearm, brushing one finger along to the back of his wrist, and said, “Thank you, my friend.”

Such tiny, brave acts can turn the tides of war.

Napoleon nodded, not trusting his voice, and climbed onto the bed to sit cross-legged and peel eggs.

“No eggshells in my bed, Solo,” Gaby said threateningly as she sat up to wrap both hands around her coffee cup.

“Napoleon," he offered to mollify her.

“Too long.”

“Too inflammatory,” Illya added, pouting as he watched Napoleon’s fingers pick the last of the shell membrane off the first egg.

“Not over that pesky little invasion yet? It’s only been one hundred and fifty years...” Napoleon smiled winningly as he handed the naked egg over.

Illya’s pout turned to a scowl. Before he took a bite, he growled, “Where do you think Hitler got idea? We are tired of invasions.”

Napoleon watched Illya chew and swallow, then surprised himself by saying, “Leon.”

“Really?” Gaby said, a piece of toast halfway to her mouth.

“Why not,” Napoleon said casually. Possibly too casually, because she narrowed her eyes at him. “If I’m to call you Gaby, in private...”

She raised her eyebrows and inclined her head, but said nothing.

Illya however, pointed to each of them, saying, “Girl, and Cowboy.” Then he pressed his hand to his chest and shrugged. “Illya.”

Gaby looked fiercely at them both, then set down her coffee cup to rest a hand on each of their knees. “Mine, and mine.”

Napoleon couldn’t argue with that. He was tempted to on principle, but wasn't this what he'd been campaigning for all along?

 

-

 

It was a strange, slow dance at first, and Napoleon couldn’t find the rhythm — or it kept changing. Illya dragged and Gaby was too far ahead, and both of them were trying to lead. Or maybe they were each dancing to their own tune, and Napoleon wasn’t expected to accommodate both of them at once.

But he'd prefer it that way, and if his observations were on the mark, so would they.

He still took lovers occasionally, but as always, they were nothing more than a delightful little puzzle to pass the time. On missions he was still the one who seduced information from people, but now he was expected to report back, in detail. Sometimes those little debriefing sessions were more enjoyable than the acts themselves.

But more often than not, it was just the three of them, unburdened by social niceties or the need to keep up appearances. It was a novel situation for Napoleon, but he took to it like a duck to water. Gaby, on the other hand, was an expert, and he found that both he and Illya deferred to her on that score. No surprise that she reveled in it.

Even so, it was disconcerting how easily she could sway both of them these days.

“It’s Friday night, and for the first time in too long, we don’t have to do Waverly’s bidding. How shall we celebrate?” Napoleon was already at the bar cart, dropping ice into glasses in preparation to mix drinks.

Illya shrugged and looked to Gaby, who kicked off her heels and stretched before raising her eyebrows at Illya and pointing to the back of her dress. He reached out to undo the tiny zipper with his massive fingers as she hummed and said, “I can think of quite a few ways, if you’re asking.”

“Dinner, theatre, concert, moonlit drive...” Napoleon suggested. He turned with a half-empty bottle of vodka in one hand and another full of scotch in the other. “What are we drinking? White Russians? Rusty Nails?”

“What do you think?” Illya grumbled, as if he had no other choice but to drink vodka.

“I’ll teach you to like whiskey if it kills me,” Napoleon muttered as he set down the scotch. “Go fetch the cream, would you, Illya, darling?”

A grunt was the only response, but Napoleon could hear Illya heading to the kitchen anyway. He smiled to himself and spoke quietly as he measured out the vodka into three glasses. “He really is obedient, isn’t he? Why don’t you call _him_  Hündchen?”

“Because it was a battle to convince him _you_ were the puppy.” Gaby’s voice was a lot closer than he’d expected, and he jumped, almost spilling the last jigger’s worth of liquor onto the tray. Luckily he recovered before her arms wrapped themselves around his waist. They were bare and warm and Napoleon stroked her right forearm gently before picking up the bottle of coffee liqueur. She hummed before adding, “Otherwise, he never would have agreed to this.”

_This._ Whatever it was, thank God they’d managed to get it off the ground and running. It would have only worked if each of them was equally willing. That Illya needed a nudge in the right direction hadn’t been surprising, but at least he’d allowed that nudge to bring him around in the end. If Gaby hadn’t found a way to make that happen, they’d still be circling each other, wary, never fully trusting. Waverly would have had his hands fuller than he already complained of. _This_ made his job so much easier in the long run. And theirs much more pleasurable.

Napoleon sighed, the press of Gaby’s forehead between his shoulderblades more comforting than he’d like to admit. She tightened her arms around him as if knowing instinctively that he needed it, and to throw her off, he huffed as if annoyed. “How long had you been planning this?”

“It was _your_ idea,” she said in a thoroughly unconvincing manner, her breath warming his back and making him shiver.

He thought back to the start and had to concede the fact that he’d been the one to first float the idea. Yet somehow, after everything, even that couldn’t convince him she hadn’t been the mastermind all along. “Does it count if I say that I _want_ to believe you?”

“No. Traitor.” Her hands slipped away as smoothly as they’d come, and just in time for Illya to tromp back into the room. “Thank you, _Liebchen._ ”

Napoleon turned to see him helping Gaby into her dressing gown. She’d been wearing nothing but her slip. As Illya approached the bar with a small bottle of cream, Napoleon said, “Don’t get too comfortable, we’re going out in a minute.”

“The lady has undressed, Cowboy.” Illys said, his eyebrows high. “We are staying in tonight.”

"But what about celebrating?" Napoleon asked as he handed out the drinks, then watched Illya and Gaby exchange a look that seemed to say 'These Americans.'

Gaby shrugged one shoulder, and it slipped its silk covering to reveal a winglike curve of smooth, tanned skin. "We can celebrate right here. On the rug, if you like."

Napoleon’s mouthful of White Russian went down hard as Gaby turned on the transistor radio and crooked her finger at him.

The air filled with a tune that had a heavy beat, and what came after was the most absurd little dance Napoleon had ever participated in.

He wouldn't have missed it for the world.


	4. Gaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Step Five:
> 
> One foot in front of the other — 
> 
> Barefoot on the rug.

Step Five

_One foot in front of the other —_

Barefoot on the rug.

Gaby danced alone with her drink for long enough that she was frowning when Illya took her free hand. She let him twirl her around once, then she stepped back to make room for Napoleon. Illya frowned too, but that was nothing new — the man was skeptical of everything. 

“Leon, come here.”

Napoleon’s eyes softened as he stepped forward. If he were a cat, he would have started to purr. So much for the puppy. Now that he knew he was wanted, he’d started to play coy. Or he really was just that much of a gentleman.

Gaby coaxed Napoleon’s stiffness into a form of dancing, holding him close to get him to sway. Illya surprised her by not sandwiching her between them, but instead pressing close behind Napoleon, hands on Gaby’s waist. Both of her men were hopeless for the first song and a half, but then “You’ve Really Got A Hold On Me” came on.

Napoleon chuckled when he recognized it and melted into Gaby’s arms. Maybe it was because of the height difference, but he started to lead with his hips, and everything got easier. Illya followed suit and the two of them moved so perfectly together she thought for a moment about leaving them to it. But then Napoleon started singing quietly along with the song, and his breath wafted hotly across her neck. She shivered in pleasure and he pulled her even closer into his embrace.

He cut such a sharp figure in his suits that she was surprised every time to feel how softly he could hold her. His strength was apparent, but not overwhelming. Illya’s grip on her waist was the threat, but only because he was likely to leave bruises. He’d kiss them later in remorse, so she didn’t mind.

“May I?” Napoleon asked, his lips ghosting along her neck, bringing up goosebumps.

“No. Turn around.”

He gave her a kicked puppy look, but she resisted his baby blues and drew a circle in the air with her finger. Illya’s hands slipped reluctantly from her waist as Napoleon slowly rotated in his arms. Illya looked ready to leave room for the holy spirit, but Napoleon just nuzzled in close, sliding his hands around Illya’s waist, and resting his cheek on Illya’s shoulder. If Gaby were a different sort of person she would have cooed her delight.

Instead, she had to refrain from slapping Napoleon’s ass. It was only Illya’s surprised acceptance — and his somewhat pleading glance — that had her stepping close. His massive hands found their way quickly to her hips, and she finished out the song pressed against Napoleon’s hard, muscled back.

When the announcer came on the radio, she stepped away to switch it off. The two men — her boys — were standing motionless together on the rug. She sat on the arm of the sofa to watch.

After a long moment, she said, “Kiss him, Illyusha. He’s waiting.”

Illya’s fingertips brushed the corners of Napoleon’s jaw as if it were too fragile to hold. When he leaned in, Napoleon closed his eyes, but in the end it was a simple Russian greeting of three kisses on alternating cheeks. Gaby frowned, but the soft smile on Napoloeon’s face was worth the reserve.

“No, darling, show him you mean it. We’re celebrating, after all.”

“What does that mean?” Illya was clearly asking for suggestions — or maybe boundaries — not a definition.

“Doing something pleasurable for ourselves, right here on the rug,” she replied. Turning to admire Napoleon’s lightly flushed face, she added, “How does that sound, _Hündchen_?”

“Plan on treating me like a dog, Gaby?” Napoleon’s eyebrow arched, in censure or suggestion, it was difficult to tell. Either way, Gaby decided she’d scored a point.

“Not necessarily. I think our Illya would rather treat you like the cowboy you are. Right, _Liebchen?_ ”

There was a pause before Illya spoke. He was taking his time looking at each of them, deciding how serious they were. “I am not pony.”

“But you like being ridden.” Gaby couldn’t keep from glancing at Napoleon. His reaction didn’t disappoint — the flush deepened, and he let out a little breath as if he’d been holding it. She tried to hide her smile as she added, “Shall I demonstrate?”

Now it was Illya’s turn to blush. He looked down at the floor, letting his lashes hide his light eyes from view. “You like me beneath you so I do not crush you. _Him_...” Illya gestured dismissively toward Napoleon, implying he could hold his own.

Gaby stood up and walked toward the two men, eyes on Illya, but when she reached them, she touched Napoleon’s chest. “I like you beneath me because you let me do what I want. And you look so pretty when you’re lying on your back, passive.”

Illya’s eyes were locked to the rug and he shifted his weight. Napoleon’s heart beat rapidly under her palm. _Good._

Being the hinge had its perks.

 

-

 

Gaby refused to let on how aroused she was.

Illya was stretched out on the rug with Leon straddling his thighs. They were each of them wearing a couple items of clothing still, and it expressly annoyed her that she couldn’t get them fully naked in front of each other. _Yet._

But at least Illya’s big hand was wrapped around them both, slowly stroking firmly enough to make their breaths catch, one after the other. She’d been happy to lounge on the sofa while sweet-talking them into this, watching them circle around it, slowly getting gentler with each other as they both got hard, but now even six feet away was too many.

When Illya glanced at her with heavy eyelids and a fond smile, Gaby slid out of her dressing gown and off of the sofa, then slowly crawled over to the two of them. Neither balked. In fact, Leon leaned back to give her a better view. Better access.

She reached out to brush a hand along each of their sides, and Illya’s hips bucked slightly at the touch. _Good._

“Gaby...” He only used her name in bed, like a sigh, a prayer. She revelled in it, let it seep into her skin.

When she looked up, Leon was watching her, his pupils blown wide and darkening his eyes, his gaze taking on an edge of desperation.

“What you do need, darling?”

Both men breathed hard and chorused, “You.”

Illya’s eyelashes fluttered prettily as she leaned down to kiss him and he huffed when she ended it too soon. “Please...”

“Patience, _Liebchen._ ”

“Don’t _I_ get—”

“You too, Leon.” She silenced him with a quick kiss, ending with her teeth on his bottom lip. He sighed at the bite, his hands reaching out to hold her in place. “Ah-ah-ah, put your hands on him, not me.” Leon frowned at her, but did as he was told. _Good little pup._

“Illyusha, dear, let Leon take over so you can...” she trailed off as she threw one leg over Illya’s torso to straddle him backwards, facing Leon. She sighed as she settled on Illya’s bare chest, his soft moan at her wetness coming as music to her ears.

“Gaby... Please—” Illya caught his breath, presumably because Leon’s hand was working on them both, as before.

“Yes, darling, you may. Hand or mouth? You choose.”

He was already reaching for her, grabbing hold of her hips with his huge, strong hands, guiding her back towards his head. Illya made no secret of loving how she tasted, and already they’d nonplussed Leon by implying that Illya was generally quiet because he had much better uses for his tongue than talking.

She let out a stuttering breath as his hot mouth pressed between her legs, and Leon’s lips parted to catch the whimper that followed.

“ _There_ you are,” Leon whispered against her cheek. “So many walls tumbling down.”

“I...” Illya’s mouth at this backwards angle was taking much of her focus, but she managed to answer. “I’ve been an open book, _Hündchen,_ you just wouldn’t stop moving long enough to sit down and read.”

“Now you’re going to tell me you always go without underthings.” Leon’s lips trailed slowly down Gaby’s neck and along her shoulder toward the thin strap of her slip. “That tonight wasn’t planned out beforehand.”

“Many times, yes. I like to be prepared for _ah—_ ” Illya’s tongue, she had learned, was wide; it always caught her off guard when he pushed it inside.

Leon growled low enough that it resonated in her chest. His hands slid along the satin of her slip, cupped the roundness of her shoulder, her chin. “You were ready for this how many nights and I didn’t know?” She waited for outrage or possessiveness, something that would sour the moment or rankle Illya. Instead: “Tell me next time so I can savor the thought all evening.”

He leaned in so his lips tickled her ear. “Drive me wild. Make you wet.” Then just a little louder, “And torture Illya.”

Gaby could feel the grunt underneath her — a throb of pleasure — but Illya wouldn’t waste breath to respond. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back to concentrate on the curl of his tongue, and Leon took the offering as his due, mouthing along her neck and collarbone, jaw and hairline.

By the sounds both of her men made, Leon had started stroking them once again, and Gaby found her own pleasure building along with theirs. But just as the sweet ache inside her was starting to peak, Illya began to lose his rhythm.

“Darling, _befingern. Пальцами,_ ” she urged, too impatient to pick a language.

She knelt up to raise herself off Illya’s face, her legs trembling with want, and almost immediately a pair of fingers slid against her, slicking themselves thoroughly. She sighed, a whine in her throat, and there was a low chuckle in response.

Leon exhaled, whispering, “As you wish. Christ, you feel good.”

Her eyes flew open to see him smile, smirky as ever but ragged with desire, and as he stroked her she gasped. Another finger, this one larger, slid into her to the second knuckle and curled beautifully.

“Illyusha,” she breathed, her voice gone in wonder. He wagged his finger in response and she grunted at the wave of prickling heat over her skin. _So close._ “Leon. _Innen._ ”

There was a split second where no one moved, then Leon’s fingers joined Illya’s, gentling their way in and sliding along each other like they were made for this. Gaby bore down on them and everyone had to adjust, but being filled with them both was too delicious to keep still for long. After a minute she had the wherewithal to return the favor and take them both in the tight circle of her hands, but those fingers inside were too compelling for her to manage much more than a firm grip.

When each of them curled their fingers in opposite directions, she cried out at the spike of pleasure coursing through her, and she ground down hard enough their wrists were in danger. Not that she cared.

“More. _Mehr. Scheiß-_ ”

And then, finally, the pressure and the rhythm lined up, and those clever fingers hit the right spots both inside and out, and she shook as the sweet, hot pleasure rolled over her again and again. “Don’t stop, Don’t...” she moaned as she rode through the climax until her limbs tingled, heavy and spent.

“ _Gut,_ ” she sighed, as she slid off of Illya onto the rug and relished the emptiness inside her as much as she had the fullness. She reached for the two of them once more, but Leon gently batted her hand away.

“Allow me,” he said with a wink, then took Illya in his mouth. The hard gasp and quick buck of hips that followed meant the move was as much a surprise to Illya as it was to Gaby. She just lay there stunned, staring at Leon’s gorgeous lips and hollowed cheeks, the graceful bob of his head, the pretty flush on his face as if he were deriving just as much pleasure from his ministrations as Illya was.

The grunts and moans from Illya were nothing less than wanton, and even satisfied as she was, Gaby shivered to hear them. He reached out to touch her, but her skin was still too hot, so she held his clean hand as Leon brought him to the edge. At the last moment, Illya pulled her close, and she leaned in for a hot, breathy kiss that ended up more of a bite. Next she knew he was tumbling over the precipice, freefalling through his release.

It was always a gift to see Illya thrown out of himself and into pure ecstasy — a felled God among mortals. As usual, when he was finished, she couldn’t help smoothing his furrowed brow and nudging his jaw closed. He would be gone for at least a minute, so she watched Leon’s satisfied face as he wiped his mouth and contemplated Illya’s vulnerable state.

“He trusts you,” Leon said reverently.

“And you. _I_ didn’t do that.” She brushed her fingers down Leon’s arm and added, “But I could do whatever you need.”

“He didn’t require much after how close you got him.” He arched his brow. “I won’t either.”

“Well?” Gaby looked at him, unimpressed, impatient. Pretending, and he knew it. She would have given him anything he asked for at that moment, due to the largesse of her orgasm and the inspiring way he had pleasured Illya.

“I want to take care of Cowboy.” Illya propped himself up on his elbows and looked through his lowered eyelashes at them both. The flush on his cheeks and the way he bit his lip were the prettiest thing Gaby had seen in a long time. Leon too, by the sigh he gave.

“Be my guest, Peril.” Leon moved up Illya’s body to be in reach, and Illya stroked him once, down then up, with his other hand. Leon moaned loudly. “Fuck. You’re still slick with her.”

Illya nodded slowly, his eyes riveted to Leon’s face. Then he raised his middle finger and pressed it against Leon’s lips. Another deep, guttural moan as Leon’s tongue flicked out to taste her on him. A flash of heat went through Gaby at the sight. “Yes,” she said, though it could have been him that spoke, she was so invested in what he felt.

The slick hand made a sweet, wet sound on him, and his breath as it caught and huffed, letting out tiny whimpers and moans, seemed to steal the air from her own lungs.

“Oh God... Yes, that... Illya, _please_...” and other desperate appeals came hotly from his swollen lips, and Gaby drew closer as his pleasure built towards cracking him open. When he reached the breaking point, she kissed him, hard and deep, and he clung to her as if for life as he shuddered into Illya’s strong, capable, and clearly adroit hand.

The smile on Leon’s face after was sheepish but sweet, as if he’d been given the present he’d always wanted but had never dreamed to ask for.

Except of course he _had_ asked. That was how this whole ridiculous, brilliant, reckless dance had started.

And thank God he did.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like i chose german words that could be gleaned from context, but i'll throw in a quick glossary:  
> Hündchen: puppy/doggie  
> Liebchen: sweetheart  
> befingern: finger (verb, in this case, imperative)  
> Пальцами: fingers (Russian)  
> innen: inside  
> mehr: more  
> Schieß: shit/damn  
> gut: good
> 
> i think that's all of them.  
> (thanks to allmyinvisiblemonsters for Russian help)
> 
> Thanks for reading! :D  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> the first Man from UNCLE fic I read was "the devil finds work for" by Fahye.  
> I haven't wanted to read any others.  
> it took me a while to realize how much this story owes to that one, but if you don't believe me, compare for yourself.  
> you can find it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4660053  
> it's better than this one.


End file.
